The wind that day was strange. It crept through the open lattice of the Hall of Judgment like an uninvited whisper, stirring the long banners that hung from the rafters. Dust turned in the thin shafts of light, and the scent of sandalwood clung to the air, sharp and sweet.
Four men sat in solemn rows upon the dais. Beneath the jade eaves, disciples knelt in ordered silence, the faint rustle of robes barely audible. Among them sat Lin Wuyue, her back straight, expression composed, eyes lowered in quiet thought. Though no longer among the presiding masters, her presence commanded attention — measured, watchful, unspoken.
At the center of the hall sat Ling Xiuyuan, tall and austere, his black hair bound with white silk. Behind him, Nie Xiaohuan kept his place as always, calm yet taut with quiet vigilance. Near a carved pillar at the edge of the chamber waited Mingyue, head slightly bowed, hands folded within his sleeves — motionless, unassuming, as if carved from the still air itself.
The messenger knelt before them, his forehead pressed to the cold stone.
"At the foot of Mount Yanlu," he said, his voice trembling, "a strange presence has taken form. The villagers speak not of a ghost of the dead, but of a spirit without name or shape. It calls to them in dreams. The air there freezes the breath. Three have vanished already; those who returned remember nothing."
A murmur rippled through the gathered disciples.
Zhou Qingrong's voice cut through it, low and steady.
"A spirit not born from death, then. Fear made form, perhaps. Such things take root in the mind — once stirred, they do not fade easily."
Wei Jingyan inclined his head.
"Shixiong," he said quietly, addressing Ling Xiuyuan, "I sent two disciples to investigate. They turned back before they reached the forest. Since returning, they've been fevered — their dreams are full of voices they cannot name."
Han Yuejian's gaze darkened, his voice firm.
"An unformed spirit grows by feeding on resistance. The longer it lingers, the deeper it burrows into the heart. It must be dealt with swiftly, Shidi."
The words fell into stillness. Even the incense smoke seemed to pause.
Ling Xiuyuan stood without movement. When he spoke, his tone was measured, calm — but final.
"I will go myself."
The sentence struck through the silence like a bell at dusk.
Wei Jingyan's eyes widened. "Shixiong, you've not yet recovered," he said, stepping forward. "Let Shijie and me handle it this time. You should remain here."
Before Ling Xiuyuan could answer, Han Yuejian spoke, his tone edged with concern.
"Let me go instead, Shidi. You have borne too much alone. Stay, and let your strength return. The sect cannot afford to see you fall again."
But Ling Xiuyuan only shook his head. "Shixiong, you stay behind." It was the same in past. When one went to cultivation, the other stayed behind.
A faint sigh escaped Han Yuejian, the resignation of a man long accustomed to this answer. Zhou Qingrong and Wei Jingyan exchanged glances, but neither spoke; they, too, knew that once Ling Xiuyuan's decision had settled, it would not bend.
Ling Xiuyuan turned slightly toward them.
"Wei Jingyan, Zhou Qingrong — prepare your talismans. We leave at dawn."
Both bowed, their assent quiet but uneasy.
Behind him, Nie Xiaohuan drew a slow breath. He wanted to speak — to say let me come with you, as he once had so many times — but the look in his master's eyes silenced him before he could open his mouth.
And then, as though following a thread unseen, Ling Xiuyuan's gaze shifted.
It moved past Wei Jingyan, past Zhou Qingrong, past Han Yuejian, and stopped upon the still figure at the edge of the hall.
"You," he said softly. "Come with me."
The air seemed to still.
Every eye turned toward Mingyue. The hall went utterly silent.
From where she sat among the disciples, Lin Wuyue looked up. Her gaze met Mingyue's — only for a heartbeat — and something indefinable passed through her, like the brush of memory half-remembered.
Behind them, Nie Xiaohuan remained motionless. His fingers had curled so tightly within his sleeves that his knuckles ached. He understood at once what none of the others could.
Ling Xiuyuan's command had not been born of trust, but of need — the need to know, to test, to look upon this face that mirrored the dead and prove that it was not him.